


Peripheral Vision

by applecameron



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, Mental Illness, PTSD, Post-Traumatic Stress, Triggers, managing mental illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-03
Updated: 2016-07-03
Packaged: 2018-07-19 22:35:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7380160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/applecameron/pseuds/applecameron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>If you are triggered by prospective attackers creeping up on you, in this fic that's one of Arthur's triggers, too.  You may wish to avoid this fic.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Peripheral Vision

**Author's Note:**

> If you are triggered by prospective attackers creeping up on you, in this fic that's one of Arthur's triggers, too. You may wish to avoid this fic.

When he starts catching glimpses of people creeping up in his peripheral vision who aren't really there, Arthur knows it's long past time to retreat to safety.

It's not as bad as it used to be.  He knows his own cues, learned by trial and error.  Knows when he uncontrollably scurries past dark, open doorways, or finds himself unable to stop checking over his shoulder, it's time to go.

Arthur keeps his hair slicked back so it never falls in his face, never brushes his cheek, never dances in the corner of his eye to make him think _someone is there, someone got close_.  

He wears fitted clothes that serve as his armor, layers protecting him from a knife to the kidney, and provide a subtle sense of pressure that makes him feel safe.  In practicality, thought perhaps not fashion sense, his waistcoats are modeled on the one _not_ worn by Franz Ferdinand on June 28, 1914, more's the pity.

He likes his beds to be a little low, he needs to be able to get out fast.  He untucks his sheets for that purpose, if he doesn't, he can't sleep.  He doesn't like to touch walls when he sleeps.  He must face the door, he _must_ face the door, he _must face the door_ or he'll jerk to wakefulness, looking over his shoulder, all night long.  

Arthur doesn't know if he's an easy man to love, but he's sure as hell tough to sleep with.  And sleep is so terribly vital.  Something in him resets, the anxiety recedes, he doesn't check the mirror for attackers so compulsively the morning after the night before.  His hair trigger simply subsides to a dull roar, under regular application of a good night's sleep.

When he gets tired he's more prone to seeing things that aren't there, and it's simultaneously harder to control his reaction, to swallow all that anxiety down and try to rationalize it away.

He doesn't know what set it off, but Eames had stepped out once, after the end of a job, for a hand-off or something, and Arthur had tiredly clambered out of bed under the sudden, irrational fear that he'd forgotten to turn the oven off.  It was a small thing, except he turned away after tapping each knob one at a time and saying 'off' in his head, and what was probably his own hair in his peripheral vision became someone walking past him, all darkness and elbows, toward the pitch black of the other room.  And he shook so hard Eames' name was probably unrecognizable when it came out of his mouth, and all he could do was run, but don't run, _it'll chase you if you run_ , so he just took one laborious step after the other backward toward the lit bedroom, toward warmth and safety and _light_ , _light that meant he could see the attack coming_ , muttering Eames' name like an incantation, and he _hid_.  He fucking _hid_ , until Eames got back, wedged in a corner, clutching a pillow to his chest, and shrieked when Eames got home and walked into the bedroom, smelling like alcohol and a bar full of people who ignored no-smoking signs, but still someone entering the room because it could've been an enemy.  Even though it was the person he wanted most to see, it could've been an enemy.  Arthur shrieked and clapped his hand over his mouth _even though it was Eames_. Later, he'd apologize for that.  After Eames had gone ahead of him, taking point, and turned on every single light in the apartment, opened every door, moved things so Arthur could see the back wall of every closet.  They walked the security perimeter, and after the last check, after Eames wedged a doorstop under their own door, to make it harder to open from the other side, he breathed a sigh of relief so huge, so all-encompassing, that it almost made him dizzy, all the energy leaving his body in one breath.  Eames caught him around the waist and held them together until Arthur had his balance back, and that's when he said _sorry_ , muttered it to Eames' clavicle, to the fabric of his shirt.  And Eames touched the back of his head, and murmured, _I'm here, pet_.  _You're safe_.

Fucking _hair_.  He's done a buzz cut in the past, but it just doesn't look right with the fancy suits that are part of his image.  So he sticks with the pomade, but _God_.   _Fuck_ you.   _Fuck you very much_.

That night, that night of the hair and the pitch black and invader made of darkness and elbows, Eames had sat up in bed and held him for a long time, stroking in a long, slow pattern up and down Arthur's back, keeping watch so Arthur could sleep.

So, here he is, starting to catch things creeping up on him out of nowhere, in his peripheral vision, that queer drag of vision that fatigue causes turning into _creeping_ and _darkness_ and _elbows_ and he knows it means it's time to stop, time to leave.  Past time. He stands and nearly jumps at Eames voice saying "time to go, yeah?"  Holds it in, knowing Eames saw, knowing it's OK, knowing Eames has his back.

"I'll drive.  Why don't you have a kip in the back?" 

He does, but not in the back.  Arthur cranks the passenger seat back and curls inward, fighting with the seatbelt, closes his eyes and breathes the scent of Eames, and _closeness_ and _safety_ , and doesn't wake until Eames is turning off the car, later, at their destination.

It's not long after that Arthur crawls into bed and curls on his side, facing the door.  Eames spoons him, but leaves enough space between them so he's not breathing on Arthur's neck.  That way lies disaster.  Another lesson learned through trial and error.

But, it's not as bad as it used to be.  Not with Eames, warm and solid, anchoring him to the truth.

 


End file.
